Being Neighborly

Growing up I can distinctly remember times where we stopped at a pay phone (ha!) to call people and ask if it was convenient that our family stop by, as we happened to be in the neighborhood. This culturally obligatory frantic-cleanup barrier provided a grace period I did not quite understand until I had a home of my own. Time to get dressed, shove extra items in closets, do a quick vacuum. With the courtesy call, a home keeper had a chance to get hold of herself and her home, and could meet you, ready (albeit breathless and red-faced from hurry) at the door when you finally dropped in.
Rarely is such courtesy afforded in the country. This, I did not know before I moved here, and it's taken getting used to the new custom. And I'll tell you a secret: I am now a perpetrator, guilty of drop-ins-without-notice. And I LIKE it.
The first time I experienced this walk-in culture was when Ryan had his seizure, and by the time we returned, two neighbors had been in our basement, fixing a leaky pipe.
Since then, I have become used to the knock, no answer, open and call culture. Of course, this is only OK between friends- we don't just do this with people we don't know (I'm sure there are NRA members in the country, too).
Yesterday I was talking with a group of women who had also been caught off-guard:
"I was upstairs taking a shower. When I came downstairs, there was a plate of cookies on my kitchen table. I stood very still, and then slowly turned around. I called out..no answer. I KNOW that plate wasn't there when I went up to take a shower...either I am losing it or someone had been in my house!"
Another chimed in with a laugh "I learned my lesson about staying in my bathrobe half the morning. If I don't want to be greeted that way, I make sure to get dressed first thing!"
I didn't mention, bud did recall times where I had done just this very thing with friends- leaving a loaf of bread or some cinnamon rolls not on their porch, but on their kitchen counter. Sometimes I add a note, explaining, other times I just simply leave and run. I admit it, I have a problem. Also? I can hear my mom's quiet gasp "I raised you better, honey!"
As a result of this culture, many more of my Iowan friends and acquaintances have seen an untidy house than my Washington friends, but it has also allowed for a more relaxed atmosphere. See, I have seen THEIR lived-in houses, too. Reality is, there is no perfect home all the time. Most of us have toddlers, teenagers, (selves?) that live in our homes, and that makes them...gasp...imperfect. And though we are constantly working on our houses: their homeyness, improvement, welcoming nature, this culture of drop-ins has one of two effects- you go insane with trying to hold it all together at all times, or you relax just a bit, and realize that there are more important things to hospitality than perfection.

Houdini? Houtdiness? Part II

Not long after the last video was filmed and the usefulness of these little birds was sealed in my heart (ok, not my heart, but my brain finally understood it), we lost four of them. Phooey, that Murphy’s Law.
Someone had gathered eggs and left the chicken coop door open one night- in the morning there could only be three chickens found. Three. And the pretty rooster was gone, too.
It happens out here in the wild. Life. Death. We don't name many things here. (And when we discuss our “farm” to new people, we mention that we inadvertently feed a lot of the wildlife.)
So when one of the last three chickens went missing the day my mom arrived for her visit a few weeks ago, I sighed heavily, wondering if I would need to start buying store bought eggs to make "ends meet".
Mom spent a week here, and then flew home. A few days after that, I took the boys out with me to do the morning chores. We don't normally linger over the water shut-off, but this morning I had to reconnect the hose to the faucet so I could fill up the cows’ water trough.
"The chickens in there," Ryan said conversationally.
"Mmm Hmm? What chicken? In where? The coop?"
"No, the chicken is in the watering 'hingie."(the word "thingie" used aptly to any object where a proper name alludes him at the moment -I have started picking up this practice, too.)
I listened for a moment, and I heard an echoing chortle. A chicken cluck-cluck-cluck. It did, indeed, sound as if it was coming from within the well pit. But how in the world...?
With David in one arm, poised on hip, I lifted the heavy lid. Sure enough, perched high on an awkward plank teetering ten feet over the gravel pit below, sat our missing third hen, looking no worse for the wear. Ten days in solitary confinement. At the first peek of light, although obstructed by three heads peeking in at her, she mustered all of her chicken-guts and flew right over Ryan's head. We all shrieked and jumped and the hen waddled as quickly as she could back to the coop.
"WOW! DID YOU SEE THAT RYAN?" I said, breathless, laughing. I could NOT believe that chicken had lived in a damp, dark, scary hole for over a week. Plus! I was back up to three hens.
Ryan, however, was nonplussed. "Well, Sadie chased her in there." As if he was discussing some mundane issue like "It's kind of sunny today." This made perfect sense to him, apparently.
Upon inspection, I found a small hole where she must have squeezed under the roof of the well cover to flee our chicken-loving canine. Needless to say, I am going to have to start listening to my boy a bit more closely.
And as I mentioned before, we don't usually name animals on this farm, for the obvious problem with retention rates, but since this chicken seems to have multiple lives, I think it's safe to give her a name. But creativity alludes me- any suggestions?

P.S. She's the black and white one on the left in the picture above.

P.P.S. Honestly, I don't really know which black and white one she is. Who can tell those two apart? Not I. Not that I couldn't if I tried...it's just that I don't spend THAT much time watching those ladies.

P.P.P.S. It is raining, raining, raining today and so I, one who loves warmth, refuse to go out and take a new picture of the afore mentioned well-pit. However, in the interest of visual aid to the story, the well-pit where the chicken lived is shown in the top picture on this page, behind ol' Roostie (rip). The roof covers a hole about ten feet deep and four feet wide, and houses our pressure tank and numerous connections for well water on our property.

Houdini? Houdiness? Part 1

It was about the time that I started enjoying my chickens that they also started disappearing. One by one, a steady trickle of poultry feeding the crafty wildlife. We ended winter with 15 chickens (one pretty rooster, 14 layers). By this time last month, we were down to seven (one pretty rooster, 6 chickens). And I have to be honest with you. A bit honest. I was OK with this drop in numbers. I liked six. Six was comfortable, easy to count, and the eggs they produced were enough to be generous with yet not so many that I couldn't use them all up at home if need be. It was not an overwhelming number, and they did a nice job grazing for most of their food.

Chickens, though, had to work their way into my heart. They are not overly cuddly (well, not really cuddly at all) and don't have an endearing look to them (ala puppy). But, oh my are they functional! Eggs! We know about the eggs. But, did you know they eat most of the irritating pests strewn about the Iowan yard? Crickets and worms and grubs in the garden. Mosquitoes and flies and lightning bugs and beetles. Weeds! They like small weeds! Also, cucumber beetles and ladybugs. It's like having a mobile, quiet yard/bug/cleaning machine going at all times.

We turned my garden by hand this year, and while it was wonderful because it buried the tough layer of sod deeply in the earth, it was not the easiest task. After such labor, one is not too thrilled with the prospect of breaking up the clods, removing the fat white grubs, and smoothing out the ground for planting.




ENTER CHICKENS!
Before I knew it, the ladies ran over, thrilled with the new treat, and started scratching, digging, pecking and pwoking. A few minutes later, Voila! Ground ready for planting.





It was about this time that our dog, Sadie, decided the chickens had better stay in their pen, and started "showing them the way back" with her mouth. Needless to say, we lost a few in that process. By the time she was trained and all animals were happy, we were left with the six hens and 1 rooster. Here is a video of the ladies at work in my garden this spring. Ok, maybe not thrilling to watch, but let me tell you! It's wonderful! Also, I like how the Rooster is all "uh, you ladies do the work over there. I'll stand here and supervise...don't want to muss the feathers you know." Periodically he would traipse over, survey their progress, and then walk away again, aloof and regal.
I know what you are thinking. You want chickens now, don't you. It's ok, you can admit it here- we're all friends. See that smoothing action? That skillful bug extraction? I'm telling you, chickens are neat.

Second installment of The Amazing Chicken to come...

The call of the ocean

Unfortunately, I fear, the desire to swim is unavoidable.
The bright morning sun streaming through my windows as the day dawns tries to lure me into cheerfulness. Come, it beckons, there is more today. Each day deserves your heart.
The warm, steaming, creamy coffee draws me close and comforts. Come, it says, take heart and renew your spirit.
Boys with light steps and rosy cheeks beckon me. Come, they say, build towers to the sky! Crash them down and build again and again! Create and dream with us!
Harvest time calls with its cozy hues. Come, it beckons, delight in the blessings bestowed! Bring thanksgiving for all you have been given!
And then, to overshadow all of those quiet, sweet voices, comes the loud crashes of ocean waves. Stay, it says, long for what cannot be. Wade in deep waters and let the ache wash over you. And that water, though warm and familiar, slows. Feet that were made to run freely are pulled down relentlessly by the strong ocean currents. I know this. Muscles, though toned and ready, burn under the force and resistance of the waves. The water wasn't made for running.

Come, they beckon. Come and live wholeheartedly! Rejuvenate and renew! Play, dream, and dance! Let gratefulness and gladness overflow!
I hear them loudly now, and I want to be there. But that water, oh, with its deep blue recesses and rolling waves that touch the horizon lures me. Stay...
But the chorus of quiet voices still sings. Come, they call to my heart, be with us! Come, they beckon from the grassy knoll above me, run unhindered the race set before you.
And I stand on that sandy shore, toes sinking slowly into the warm, silky sand. Tiny waves wash over my feet, waiting for my heart to decide. I hesitate, not fully ready to choose either path, as it will mean leaving the other behind.
In the rythym of it all, if I listen closely, another voice resonates.
Be still, he quiets my heart, once frantic for clear direction. For it is not from within you that you pull this strength you desire. This endurance comes from Me. Be still, set your heart with Me. Only then will you be able to run the race set before you.

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I have a story about a crazy/amazing chicken to share following this post. You will laugh. In the meantime, thank you for indulging me in these not-so-lighthearted posts- they are quite therapeutic for me.

The Pace of Peace

It all started with a mishap. I suppose that's how most of my stories start- as when things go along quite swimmingly, there is nothing too surprising to report. That old pipe under frozen ground, stretched between house and well, broke- burst-cracked, or in some way, shape, or form, ceased to work.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets. But I digress...
This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. Hurry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers, crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and ssshh, thud, ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.